


against the ropes

by inkquell



Category: Monsta X (Band), No.MERCY (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkquell/pseuds/inkquell
Summary: Since Jooheon walked away from the ring a year ago, the competition has changed. Changkyun is a new face, Gunhee is a fragment of Jooheon's past, and Jooheon is just trying to stay in the fight.





	against the ropes

Sweat pools in the seam of Jooheon’s spine. The gym basement is unairconditioned and musty, the practice ring stained from decades of sweat and blood. Jooheon’s shadow casts across the floor in the dim and yellow lights, dyeing the room in sepia. There are posters stuck to the walls with metallic thumb tacks, paper worn and faded and fraying at the edges—Muhammad Ali, Raging Bull, Rocky, Fight Club. 

 Jooheon winds tape around his hand. It looks too white against his scabbed over knuckles, bruised and cut from a punch landed wrong. The heavy bag swings like a pendulum, swaying tauntingly back and forth in front of him. The chain suspending it from the ceiling creaks and groans like the hull of an old ship. Jooheon wraps the tape around his fingers and down to his wrist, then rips off the end with his teeth. 

He flexes his fist. It hurts. He throws a punch. It hurts. His fist pounds against the canvas of the heavy bag and a dull smack reverberates throughout the basement. And it hurts. He throws another punch, and another one, and another until his hands are throbbing, until the cuts on his knuckles are splitting open. Jooheon looks down at the tape around his hands, red seeping through in rusty blotches.

The sounds of footsteps scatter down the hallway, edging closer and closer. Jooheon hears the sound of shoes sliding to a stop against the grainy cement floor.

“What are you doing here so late?”  

Jooheon peers around the bag and his eyes meet Hyunwoo who is standing in the doorway, workout bag slung over his left shoulder. His silhouette is broad and intimidating, swallowed by the low light at the far end of the basement. His hair is cropped shorter than the last time Jooheon saw him, ends matted together with sweat. His faded whit t-shirt clings to his chest. 

Jooheon doesn’t stop for him. He jabs at the punching bag again and again. “Practicing,” he says in between strikes.

“Prepping for a big fight?"

“Why? You betting on me?”

Hyunwoo shrugs. “Or against you,” he says. “We’ll see.” 

“I’ll make sure you lose your money then,” Jooheon bites back, pausing to catch his breath before striking the bag again. 

Hyunwoo smiles, a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, folding them into crescents. A purpling bruise seeps into his left eye socket like ink. Jooheon was there for his fight the night before, watching from the safety of the crowd. Hyunwoo’s opponent was shorter and less experienced, but quick on his feet. Hyunwoo took a string of brutal hits, one after the other. One to his stomach, one to his jaw, one to his nose. 

In the third round, Hyunwoo pulled through, knocking his opponent off balance, his fist connecting with his temple. It wasn’t his first K.O. and it won’t be his last. Jooheon admires Hyunwoo’s finesse, steady but strikingly fluid with every punch he throws, hit he blocks. His footwork is precise and graceful like he’s dancing inside the ring, not boxing. 

Jooheon begins to unravel the tape from around his fingers. “Nice shiner by the way,” he says. The tape spirals to the floor. “It looks good on you.” 

Hyunwoo opens his mouth to say something when his eyes fall to the cuts on the backs of Jooheon’s hands.

“Jooheon, you’re bleeding,” he says. Hyunwoo grabs the towel slung over the ropes of the ring and crosses the room to hand it to him. Jooheon takes it, presses the towel against his knuckles. It stings. He bites the inside of his lip.

“Go easy on yourself,” Hyunwoo says, taking a step back. His tone edges on protective. “You’re only just getting back into things.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Jooheon argues. 

“A year is a long time to be out of the ring, Jooheon.”

He shrugs. “I haven’t been counting.” 

The flow of blood slows, drying and crusting around Jooheon’s knuckles. He throws the towel somewhere onto the floor, and grabs the tape again to rewind his hands. Jooheon nudges a pair of punching mitts by his feet with the toe of his shoe. “For old time’s sake?” he asks, looking over at Hyunwoo.

A small smile tugs at Hyunwoo’s mouth. He nods. 

They step through the ropes and into the ring. The lights are hot on the nape of Jooheon’s neck. Hyunwoo pulls on the punching mitts, the velcro ripping as he tightens them around his wrist. Jooheon jumps on the spot to warm up before getting in position, raising his hands to protect his chin, tucking his elbows in, left foot in front of the right. Hyunwoo holds his hands up in front of him, palms faced outwards. 

Jooheon’s left fist connects with the target on right punching mitt. He leans forward into the jab, knuckles curled inward. His fist recoils to its original position, then flies out again for another strike. Hyunwoo watches every move with precision, and possibly fondness. 

“Your stance is better than it used to be,” Hyunwoo comments, eyes following the in-and-out of Jooheon’s fist. “But you’re still kind of scrawny.” 

Jooheon smirks. “I’ll remember that next time we go against each other,” he says, making sure his next punch lands twice as hard. Hyunwoo’s hand, along with the punching mitt, reels backwards. He pauses, flexing and unflexing his fingers inside the mitt, sucking air through his teeth. 

“Easy there,” Hyunwoo warns, but flashes Jooheon his familiar goofy smile. 

Jooheon returns it, throwing another succession of punches once Hyunwoo recovers. Sweat drips into his eyes. His heart pounds in his chest, high on adrenaline. He missed this feeling.

They continue until Jooheon can no longer catch his breath in the short seconds between punches, and Hyunwoo insists they stop when he sees red seeping through the tape again. Hyunwoo steps through the ropes, throwing the punching mitts back into Jooheon’s gym bag, and hauls his own onto his shoulder. 

“Let me know when your fight is,” Hyunwoo says. “And before I forget…”

Hyunwoo reaches into the side pocket of his gym bag and retrieves a white pill bottle. He tosses it across to Jooheon who catches it. The pills clatter against each other inside the plastic. Jooheon turns the bottle over in his hands. It’s unlabeled.

“Thanks,” he says. Jooheon pops open the cap and lets a handful of the cylindrical blue pills tumble into the centre his palm, then scoops them back up into the bottle. He snaps the cap back on. “Thank Hoseok for me too, yeah?” 

Hyunwoo nods. “I will,” he promises.

Jooheon throws the pill bottle into his bag. It’s impact is cushioned by his boxing gloves, peaking through the top. The red material is well-worn and recognizable, but fading around the edges like the memory of something Jooheon can’t place. When he gets back in the ring again and fits his hands inside those gloves, it’ll be like he never left. 

Hyunwoo’s expression falls serious when Jooheon turns back to him again. “Everyone is happy to have you back, Jooheon,” Hyunwoo says.

“Everyone but my opponents, maybe.”

Hyunwoo chuckles. “Maybe not them.”

—

Night terrors consume Jooheon like a shadow consumes light.

He thrashes awake in the middle of the night, bolting upright, his heart thumping like a bass drum inside his ribcage. Panic clouds his head. His skin feels numb and itchy, goosebumps prickling his arms and the back of his neck like there are spiders crawling underneath. Sweat drips down his forehead and the sides of his face. Jooheon shivers, reaching blindly around in the dark. His fingers dig into the sheets. 

A sliver of light from his window is the only thing that illuminates his otherwise pitch-black apartment. Outside, a fresh snow blankets the streets and sidewalks, absorbing every little sound. The house across the street still has their Christmas lights on, a florescent blur of red, green, blue, pink, and orange. 

Jooheon finds his phone tangled in the sheets. He dials a string of numbers into the keypad without really thinking. The phone rings. Jooheon can hear his own laboured breathing echoed back to him through the call. 

An automated voice answers. “The number you dialled is not available at this time. Please call again later or leave a message at the tone.”

Jooheon waits for the long, monotone beep. “Hey, it’s Jooheon,” he says. His voice shakes, his throat rough and dry like sandpaper. Jooheon swallows down the little saliva in his mouth, realizing he was shouting in his sleep. “Um, fuck, I know it’s late, but call me when you get this.”

Jooheon tosses his phone across the mattress and rakes his fingers through his sweat dampened hair, knees pulled up to his chest. He tries to slow his breathing, count down from one hundred, to fifty, to ten, but the numbers jumble together inside his head. He can’t breathe. 

Maybe thirty minutes pass, or an hour, or maybe two. Jooheon flinches when three sudden knocks rattle the door of his apartment, shaking it on its hinges. 

“Jooheon, it’s me. Open up.”

Jooheon’s hands shake as he unlatches the chain and unlocks the deadbolt on the door. It swings open. Gunhee is standing in the hallway in his oversized winter coat. There are snowflakes in his wind mussed, black hair. 

Gunhee only makes it past the doorway before Jooheon is folding into him.

“Easy, Joo, easy,” Gunhee warns, but his hand comes up to nestle into Jooheon’s hair, holding him there. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m here. I’m here,” he repeats. His other hand rests against the small of Jooheon’s back, rubbing lazy circles with his thumb. “You alright?” 

Jooheon’s voice is muffled by Gunhee’s coat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

They go into the kitchen. Jooheon sits at the table while Gunhee makes coffee. He grabs two cups from the cupboard, two spoons from the drawer beside the stove, and cream from the fridge that thankfully hasn’t expired yet. He finds everything with so much ease it might as well be his apartment. 

There are dirty dishes stacked overtop of one another in the sink and empty takeout boxes from the Thai place next-door strewn across the counter. There’s a pile of mail on top of the fridge— birthday cards and early Christmas wishes and letters Jooheon hasn’t bothered answering, along with soon overdue bills he needs to pay before his landlord shuts off his electricity for the third time this year. 

The coffee maker beeps. Gunhee pours the black and steaming coffee into two cups, giving Jooheon more than half of the pot. He sits down in front of Jooheon, sliding the cup across the table to him. Jooheon takes it. The burn of his fingertips against the hot ceramic mug is oddly comforting. 

“Nightmares again?” Gunhee asks. It’s a simple enough question, but jarring all the same. 

“No nightmares,” Jooheon says. He shakes his head, sounding more defeated than he intends. Aside from the panic, his mind was blank when he woke up. He could barely remember where he was, let alone what he’d been dreaming about before he jolted awake. 

Gunhee pours cream into his coffee, watching a cloud of white blossom in the black. He stirs, his spoon clinking softly against the inside of the mug. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but if you want to—”

“No,” Jooheon interrupts. “No, I just need you— _someone—_ here. I just need someone here.”

Gunhee sees right through him. Jooheon hates how he does that, how he looks at him like he knows Jooheon better than Jooheon knows himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have called.

“You should drink something,” Gunhee says, motioning to Jooheon’s untouched coffee. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Jooheon reluctantly takes a sip. It soothes the soreness of his throat as he swallows, but it tastes too bitter. Gunhee smiles slightly from behind the rim of his coffee cup, then tips his head back to finish the rest, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. A splotch of purply yellow is fading against the edge of his jawbone, evidence left from the impact of an uppercut. Jooheon has avoided seeing his fights recently, but he’s almost tempted to ask whether he lost.

Jooheon lets his coffee go lukewarm. The tiled kitchen floor is cold against his bare feet as he walks to the counter and dumps his coffee in the sink. He watches it swirl down the drain, then turns on the tap to wash the rest away. The legs of the chair squeak as Gunhee stands up. He places his empty mug on the counter, and then his arms are encircling Jooheon’s waist. He presses his face against his shoulder. Jooheon doesn’t say anything, just shuts off the tap. The water gurgles in the drain. 

Jooheon reaches over to rinse Gunhee’s cup, but Gunhee slips a hand underneath the hem of his t-shirt, brushing his thumb across exposed skin just above the waistband of his boxer shorts. Jooheon’s breath catches as Gunhee kisses a sensitive spot just beneath his ear. He drags his lips down to the hollow of his throat.

“This wasn’t a booty call, dickhead,” Jooheon says, trying his best to sound unaffected by Gunhee’s touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” Gunhee asks, his hands stilling underneath Jooheon’s t-shirt. His breath is warm against Jooheon’s neck before he pulls away, lifting his head from the crook of his shoulder. 

Jooheon turns to face him, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter. He swallows and shakes his head. “No.”

Gunhee kisses him, soft at first, then hard enough to bruise, hard enough to remind Jooheon of hits he’s taken to the teeth during fights. He presses Jooheon up against the counter, inching his thighs apart with his knee, and Jooheon lets him. Jooheon wants him to. It’s easier to have Gunhee’s hands and lips and skin on his skin than it is to be awake at four in the morning alone. 

They collapse onto the mattress together, a mess of intertwined legs and hands and desperation. Even now, it’s a competition between them. Jooheon doesn’t go easy on Gunhee, fingers tangled in his hair and not afraid to tug when Gunhee pretends to be gentle with him, whispering sweet nothings against his naked collarbone like they really mean something. 

Gunhee laughs against Jooheon’s shoulder as he fights to get Gunhee’s clothes off, noting the bruises dyeing his ribs red from his most recent misstep in the ring, then crushes their lips together again. 

Gunhee kisses Jooheon like he wants to rip every one of his barriers down, piece by piece, tear him apart and put him back together.

Jooheon kisses Gunhee like he wants to be swallowed whole.

By the time Gunhee sinks two lubed fingers inside him, then three, Jooheon is holding back the urge to beg for it, and by the time Gunhee rolls a condom on, Jooheon is too far gone to care. He tugs Gunhee against his chest, kissing him desperately. 

Gunhee hovers over Jooheon on his elbows so they’re nose to nose, but too distant to be kissing. “I love you.”

Jooheon whimpers as Gunhee kisses his neck and pushes inside him, filling him up. “No— _fuck_ —no, you don’t,” Jooheon says, biting back another moan as Gunhee begins to work his hips, fucking him slow and easy. 

Gunhee breathes against his skin, barely able to keep his voice steady. “How do you know?”

Jooheon closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillows. He can’t help the smirk that splits his lips. “You’ve never been a good liar.”

Jooheon doesn’t last long after that. Gunhee reaches between their bodies to touch him, and soon Jooheon is coming inside the tightness of his fist, his vision blurry and a shout rising in his throat. Gunhee follows right after, folding into Jooheon’s chest. His teeth scrape against his shoulder as he comes, something close to Jooheon’s name on his tongue. 

Jooheon drags his fingertips up and down the groove of Gunhee’s spine and Gunhee kisses him again. He soothes over Jooheon’s kiss swollen lips with his tongue, then pulls out. Jooheon shivers at the loss, but Gunhee doesn’t leave him, kissing his cheeks and his nose and his eyelids over and over. The only thing Jooheon feels is Gunhee. It’s all he _wants_ to feel—Gunhee’s lips, his warmth, his smile and his laugh, the ache of the bruises Gunhee gives him in the ring, and those same bruises he kisses apologetically when they’re alone. 

But when Jooheon looks at him, all he sees is a mistake he keeps making.

Not long after, Gunhee is sitting tentatively on the edge of Jooheon’s mattress and reaching around for his clothes. There are new bruises spattered across his collarbone, blotches of red on his neck and his thighs. They disappear underneath Gunhee’s t-shirt as he tugs it over his head, then pulls his jeans and his hoodie on.

“I can’t stay.” 

Jooheon turns over on his side, pulling up the thin sheets around him and ignoring the stickiness between his thighs. Gunhee doesn’t stay often. Jooheon doesn’t know where he goes this late at night, or early in the morning, but he knows how to hide his disappointment. Maybe disappointment is no longer the right word for it. 

“Are you gonna be okay?” Gunhee asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” Jooheon says stiffly. He closes his eyes, a dull pain throbbing behind his eyelids.

He listens to the floorboards creak as Gunhee gets to his feet, and the soft click as the front door of his apartment closes shut.

Jooheon doesn’t sleep.

—

The crowd is rowdier tonight than Jooheon has ever seen it before, undeniably alive with excitement. It breathes and moves like one chaotic entity, individual voices slurring together into a legato of collective noise. The smell of spilt beer and sweat permeates the air, pungent and damp. Jooheon watches the fight from the outskirts of the crowd, peering over the heads of onlookers and into the ring where two boxers are in the heat of it. 

Jooheon doesn’t recognize either of them. One of the boxers is inked from head to toe, tattoos stretched over sinewy muscle and the protruding bone of his ribcage. He sticks to the same predictable pattern of attack, but his punches are hard-hitting and fast. His opponent is younger, footwork adaptive and stylistic. Sweat drips off the ends of his copper blond hair. He circles around the edge of the ring, just barely evading a hit to his temple. He slips a few punches past his opponent, leading with his right hand—a southpaw. 

“I smell fresh meat.” 

Jooheon turns his head to see Hoseok standing beside him, arms crossed and a pleased smile on his face. He sticks out amongst the crowd with his bleached hair and falsified overconfidence. 

“Have you seen them before?” Jooheon asks, looking back at the two boxers. He might have been out of the ring for a year or so, but he wasn’t expecting so many newcomers to the club when he came back.

Hoseok shrugs. “They start to blend together after a while,” he says. “I’ve seen tats over there fight before.” Hoseok motions towards the tattooed boxer. “But not the other kid.”

The other kid—the southpaw boxer—is on the ropes, struggling to dodge the punches that come his way. One hits him high on his cheek, then another in his ribs, his stomach, then his jaw. 

“They’re decent fighters, but inexperienced. I wouldn't worry about it.” Hoseok claps him on the back. “They never stick around long.” 

The crowd erupts into a thunder of cheers as the younger boxer goes down, hitting the canvas hard enough that Jooheon hears the _smack_ before it’s drowned out by the noise. He doesn’t get back up in time for the bell. 

“Are you next?” Hoseok asks, yelling over the deafening shouts of the crowd.

“Seems like it.” 

“Better get back there then.”

Hoseok follows Jooheon to the dressing room, or at least the best excuse for a dressing room a boxing club operating under illegal circumstances can have. It’s dimly lit, gnats buzzing around one, dirty, incandescent lightbulb. The door separating the dressing room from the boxing ring doesn’t succeed in drowning out the noise of the crowd. With every shout, nervousness creeps around Jooheon’s heart and grabs hold. 

The cuts on his hands have since scabbed away, leaving behind bright red scars that crisscross Jooheon’s knuckles like tally marks. He tugs off his shirt, trying to ignore Hoseok’s eyes burning into his naked back, and begins wrapping his hands, starting at the inside of his wrist and winding the tape around his fingers and back over. 

“Do you know who you’re fighting tonight?” Hoseok asks, sitting down on the bench near the door. 

“One of the new guys I guess,” Jooheon says. “You and Hyunwoo wouldn’t volunteer. When I asked Kwangji he changed the subject, and Yoonho might have pissed himself.”

“Quit flattering yourself,” Hoseok warns. “I’ve knocked you on your ass more than a few times.”

Jooheon laughs. 

Once he finishes taping his hands, Jooheon reaches into the pocket of his gym bag and pulls out an envelope. He hands it to Hoseok who flips open the unsealed flap and drags a finger across the seam of the bundle of cash inside. 

Jooheon watches Hoseok silently count the bills, more out of habit than suspicion, then clears his throat. “I, um, think it’s enough. Thanks by the way—”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Hoseok interrupts. He holds out the envelope towards Jooheon as if to give it back, but Jooheon waves him away. Hoseok frowns, looking down at the money folded inside, and holds it out again. “A welcome back present,” he offers. “I know things have been…” Hoseok sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna ask you for this.”

“Hoseok, take the money,” Jooheon says. “I’m serious.”

Jooheon crosses the room to where his boxing gloves are hanging on a hook beside the door. Jooheon walks over and slips them off. It feels like coming home.

“You sure?” Hoseok asks.

“I’m sure.”

Outside, the crowd outside roars as a makeshift announcer introduces the next boxer. 

Jooheon swallows, squeezing the gloves in his hands. “I have to get out there.”

“You probably should.” Hoseok gets to his feet, ready to follow Jooheon out of the dressing room to spectate the fight. “Hey, good luck, Jooheon. I’m surprised you’d ever step foot in here again, but it’s good to have you back.”

Jooheon half-smiles at him before slipping in his mouthguard and sliding his hands inside his boxing gloves. He clenches and unclenches his fists. His heart pounds in the confines of his ribcage, nervous electricity running through his veins like a charge through a wire. 

Hoseok opens the dressing room door and the sound of the crowd pours in uninhibited. 

Jooheon steps into the boxing ring and the world is under his feet. 

The bell rings and it’s his to take. 

The fight starts off slowly. Jooheon and his opponent dance around each other, gauging one another’s strategy. Jooheon throws the first punch, jabbing with his right hand. It’s easily avoided. His opponent dips his head out of the line of fire with time to spare, then attempts a hit of his own. Jooheon dodges it and counterattacks, his fist connecting with his opponent’s jaw. 

More blows are exchanged, each one evaded or equally ineffective. 

Jooheon aims higher and another punch lands, splitting open his opponent’s eyebrow. As soon as the crowd sees blood, cheers resonate throughout the ring. It drips down the side of his face, mixing with sweat. A drop or two seeps into the corner of his eye, dyeing his cornea red. He squints through the pain and continues fighting, more desperately now since blood has been spilled.

A blow connects with Jooheon’s stomach before he has the chance tighten his abdominal muscles. His breath sucks out of him, leaving his lungs winded and reeling. Jooheon nearly loses his footing on the canvas, but regains his balance before his opponent corners him into the ropes. 

Another punch comes Jooheon’s way. Jooheon tastes the rusty tang of blood as the skin of his lip splits open. The crowd roars. Jooheon propels his fist forward again and again, mercilessly beating his opponent down until his attempts to thwart the attacks become sloppy and slow and useless. 

Jooheon sees white underneath the searing lights. His opponent goes down and doesn’t get back up. Jooheon steps back, undefeated, and pulls his mouthguard out. He grins. Blood trickles down his chin.

The cheers are earsplitting. 

—

Hyunwoo clinks his whiskey filled glass against the neck of Jooheon’s beer bottle, then Hoseok's, Kwangji's, and Yoonho’s. There’s a collective shout of celebration, reminiscent of the crowd they left behind for the more reclusive and almost empty bar next door. 

The malt of Jooheon’s beer stings the inside of his busted lip. It’s swollen and split down the middle, dry blood crusting into what will eventually be a nasty scab. Jooheon nurses the cold bottle against his lip, groaning as pain aches underneath the skin.

Hoseok drapes his arm across Jooheon’s shoulder. 

“I think our champion here needs another drink,” he says, then plucks the beer bottle from Jooheon’s fingers, partly to gauge how much is left of his beer and partly to inspect his busted lip. He tilts Jooheon’s head backwards to get a better look. Jooheon has no other choice but to comply. “I can ask the bartender for some ice if you want.”

Kwangji manages to giggle even with his mouth full of lager.

“Forget it, I’m fine,” Jooheon says, waving Hoseok away. “It’ll heal.”

“It’s just a split lip,” Hyunwoo says. “We’ve all seen worse.”

Yoonho clears his throat from where he’s slouched back in the corner of the booth. He fiddles with the frayed away label of his beer bottle, tearing it at the edges. “Did any of you see the fight before Jooheon’s?” he asks. “Pretty brutal, huh.”

Hoseok perks up in his seat. “Which one?”

“The boxer with the tattoos?” Jooheon chimes in. “Versus that southpaw kid?”

Yoonho nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Yeah, that one.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that kid has a concussion.”

Hyunwoo chuckles. “That ‘kid’? He’s probably no younger than you, Yoonho.”

“Not the point,” Yoonho bites back.

“Newcomers only look good when they’re fighting each other,” Kwangji says, shrugging halfheartedly. “Once they step into the ring with one of the OGs, they probably won’t be coming back.”

“Are you offering yourself up?” Hoseok asks with a shit-eating grin.

“No, I never said that.” Kwangji frowns. “How about Jooheon? He has some catching up to do.”

“I just got back,” Jooheon says, shaking his head and staring down into the bottom of his beer. “I’m not gonna waste my time on any of the new kids.”

“It could be good target practice,” Hyunwoo offers, only just loud enough to hear. 

Kwangji breaks out into laughter, and everyone else immediately follows. Yoonho almost chokes on his beer, spurring into a harmless coughing fit that makes everyone at the table laugh harder. Jooheon offers a smile, but doesn't join in. Their laughter dies down when Hoseok’s phone interrupts them, vibrating obnoxiously against the table. He snatches it up immediately, sliding out of the booth to answer it in private. Jooheon doesn’t recognize it as Hoseok’s usual cellphone, probably one of his many burners. 

Jooheon drums his fingers against his thigh. “I’m gonna get some air,” he says, standing. 

Hyunwoo’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything, and no one offers to follow him either. Jooheon passes Hoseok on his way out. He’s still talking into his cellphone, leaning against the barely used payphone near the men’s bathroom. Jooheon exits through the side door and into the alleyway that separates the bar and the club. There are still pockets of people gathered near the entrance, but most of the crowd has gone home. It must be nearly two in the morning. 

Towards the far wall of the building, someone nurses a cigarette between jittery fingers. Jooheon recognizes him, if not for his dyed hair and insouciant posture, then for the bruise forming high on his cheekbone. 

“Hey, Southpaw,” Jooheon says. The other boxer raises his head. The streetlights above cast angled shadows across his face, soaking him in the dark like the lighting of an old noir film. “Do you have a lighter I can borrow?” 

Southpaw nods, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie. He tosses the lighter to Jooheon without saying anything, then goes back to his cigarette. Jooheon leans against the wall beside him, the weight of the lighter pressing into the centre of his palm, urging on his craving. He pulls a cigarette from the pack inside his jacket, puts it between his teeth, but doesn't light up. Beside him, a cloud of smoke pours out through the southpaw’s pursed lips.

Jooheon never pays much attention to newcomers. They’re arrogant and rarely want to work for their spot in the ring. But Jooheon has been out of practice for longer than he’d like to admit. He’s lucky his spot wasn’t taken during his absence. It’s almost intimidating how many new faces there are in the underground since he left.

“I saw your fight earlier,” Jooheon says, looking over at one of those new faces.

“Oh, you saw that?” Southpaw dips his head, his overgrown bangs hanging into his eyes. He lets out a small laugh, born from embarrassment more than anything else. “I got my ass kicked.”

“Can’t blame you for it,” Jooheon says. He fiddles with the cap of the lighter. The silver finish is stained from age and the spark wheel is beginning to rust. Jooheon flips the cap open, then closed again. “The guy against you was probably twenty pounds heavier. Not the fairest fight I’ve seen. I’m surprised you lasted so long, he had a mean right hook.”

Southpaw raises his hand to the bruise against his cheek, splotchy and red. A small cut is dashed across the bone where the boxer’s fist broke skin. A barely there smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, he kind of left the evidence on my face.”

Jooheon bites back a smirk. Southpaw’s eyes travel down to Jooheon’s busted lip. Jooheon instinctively runs the underside of his tongue across the cut, no longer tangy with blood.

“Did you fight tonight?” Changkyun asks, keeping eye contact with Jooheon’s lip. 

Jooheon nods. 

“Did you win?”

“Yes, I won,” Jooheon doesn’t bother masking the arrogance laced in his voice. 

“That makes one of us.” Southpaw flicks the ashes off the butt of his cigarette. 

The short gaps in their conversation are filled by the noise of the city—the wail of police sirens, the rambling of drunks passing by, the chatter pouring out from inside the bar every time someone opens the door to smoke or piss or throw up on the sidewalk. Not the nicest part of town, but every piece of it fits into a puzzle Jooheon knows too well. The space separating the boxing club and the sleazy bars and the back alleyways is something close to a home.

Jooheon watches another snowfall of ashes rain onto the pavement as the side door of the bar creaks open. 

“Hey, Jooheon, where’d you go?” It’s Kwangji who sticks his head out, beer gripped in hand. His words become progressively more slurred. “Get back in here. We can’t fucking celebrate your fight without you, idiot.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Jooheon shouts over his shoulder, then looks back. “Hey, what’s your name?”

Southpaw laughs as if he’s surprised Jooheon would ask. More smokes pours out from between his lips. “It’s Changkyun,” he says. “Lim Changkyun.”

“Changkyun,” Jooheon repeats. He hands the lighter back to him. Changkyun’s eyebrows knit together in confusion when he notices the unlit cigarette hanging from Jooheon’s mouth.

Jooheon shrugs, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and tossing it into the gutter. “I’m trying to quit.” 

The side door swings open again. “Joohoney,” someone singsongs. It’s Yoonho this time, maybe even drunker than Kwangji. “Hurry the fuck up!” 

“Joohoney?” Changkyun says, tucking the lighter back into his jacket. He doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. 

“It’s called a nickname, ‘Southpaw’,” Jooheon laughs. “They’re probably waiting around for me, I should go.” Jooheon starts backing up towards the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Changkyun throws his cigarette onto the cement and snuffs it out underneath his sneaker. “I guess I’ll see you around then,” he says. 

“Yeah, see you around.”

Jooheon turns on his heels to leave, crossing the alleyway to the side door of the bar. When he reaches for the doorknob, his hand stills. The new kids don’t last, they never do. They usually have two options. They either quit or drag their bruised asses to another boxing club across town.

A bit of advice won’t hurt. 

Jooheon turns around. “Hey, Southpaw! Next time you’re in the ring, don’t let your opponent corner you against the ropes.”

“What was that?” Changkyun’s voice echoes throughout the alley.

“Don’t get cornered against the ropes,” Jooheon repeats. “You might win next time. 

An instillment of false hope maybe, but Changkyun won’t stick around long. 

Jooheon doesn't wait to hear his answer. The side door of the bar creaks open, and he disappears inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I'll continue with this, but I've had this written for a long time and thought someone might enjoy it as a little piece writing on its own. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Minor edits made 10/28/2018


End file.
